


Monstrous

by Irena_Lyre



Series: In the Blood [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon References, Angst, But he saves John's arse, I don't think it counts as BDSM, I mean it, I said angst, John Locke flashback, John buys a romantic story in every universe, M/M, Porn Later, Seriously tho, Sherlock is a damsel in distress LOL, Trigger Warning: Murder, Trigger Warning: Trauma, Vampire!John, Vampire!Moriarty, but there's a tiny little bit of blood, case fic?, just so you know, oh yeah, post-Reichenbach AU, post-case smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irena_Lyre/pseuds/Irena_Lyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Science backfires, John has to revisit his doctoral knowledge. Post-Reichenbach AU where John has become a vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I wasn’t aware that the preparation of carrots should require safety goggles.” Sherlock observes as he emerges from the bedroom, voice still muffled with sleep. He would like to nuzzle the side of John’s face for a minute, but not when John is holding something dangerous, so he hovers over John’s shoulder instead. “Whatcha you cooking?”

“Meth.” John deadpans. He is actually grateful to Sherlock’s equipments, which he didn’t consider very useful before. “Carrots, vegetable fat, and I dunno, some catalyst. You know it’s hardcore science when an ingredient has a name you can’t pronounce before your coffee.”

“Well, I have always been able to pronounce all of mine. Also a catalyst is technically not an ingredient - ”

“There, you’ve always had too much coffee.” John laughs a little. He carefully sets down the stirring rod before switching off the Bunsen burner at the end of a large flask, out of which a suspicious fluid is dripping into a small beaker. “So much work for one breakfast smoothie. God I miss being human.” He frowns at the not-so-clear liquid as he takes a tentative sip.

“I see, the home-made recipe from Dr. Aždaja. How did the synthesis go?”

John cringes at the taste of his own product. “Not so bad for a first try, but clearly not good enough for injection. I haven’t been around these apparatuses for ages, the temperature control was probably a bit off. Plus, I could use an updated model of a centrifuge.”

_Call up the supplier_ , Sherlock adds to his mental to-do list. “I’ll see what I can nick from Stamford next time.” He picks up a slice of toast that someone has prepared for him, and chews triumphantly in John’s general direction. John rolls his eyes. Right then, the doorbell rings.

“Why are we getting clients this early?” Sherlock groans.

John drains his beaker in one gulp, then puts a finger to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth to wipe off a breadcrumb. “They aren’t early, sweetheart, we just got out of bed really late. Now go get dressed before I answer the door.”

\---

 

Mrs. Ferguson is in mourning, the lines around her eyes carved by sorrow and unrest. John could see her hands quivering as she tries to keep her composure in the chair. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Holmes, I know it’s a bit rude of me to drop in without an appointment. But my daughter, Jacqueline…is dead.”

_It would be like Sherlock to say something along the lines of “I know, saw it in the papers”,_ thinks John. But Sherlock doesn’t. Instead, he silently bids the tearful woman to go on with his listening pose.

“Jac…Jackie has been in her room all along, the police’s got nothing, nothing at all.” Mrs. Ferguson sobs. “Mr. Holmes, I’ve got an idea, but my husband will call me mental if he hears it.”

“Well, what is it?” John asks.

“I think it’s… it was a vampire.”

\---

 

“Oh, thank you for coming, I begged them not to move a thing because I hoped you would come take a look, thank you so much, Mr. Holmes and -”

“Dr. Watson.” John answers the question as he glances around the bedroom in the two-storey house with a heavy heart. The pink walls are covered with posters of boy bands and fantasy novels. In the middle of the typical mess of a mattress is a dented hollow, and John pictures a young girl’s form lying there for many peaceful nights. He walks to the window as Sherlock darts around with a convex lens. There is no sign of friction against the wall anywhere below; however, a few curious markings can be seen in the steel frame.

“The police says they’re looking for a man strong enough to climb up here and break in, but how would he get away? We didn’t hear a thing during that night. A vampire could have just flown off. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you would think the same when you see her body. Jackie was into that sort of things, who knows, maybe they’re real…”

“After seeing the body, I will notify you with a conclusion in a few days if not sooner, Mrs. Ferguson. Meanwhile, it is wise to keep your conjecture to yourself.” Sherlock says somewhat sternly as he packs up.

“Um, one more thing – may we take a look at the rooftop, please?” John interrupts.

\---

 

In the morgue, the skin of the deceased blond teenage girl is more pale than the brightly lit surroundings. An expression of agony lingers on her colourless face. For some reason, John finds his own nitrile-clad fingers lacking their usual dexterity. He takes in a sharp breath as he scrutinises the neck.

Two tiny piercings, two inches apart, are just above invisible.

An image of a pair of fangs penetrating the carotid artery unfolds itself before John’s eyes. Blood, oxygen-carrying agent of bright crimson, gushes out and get sucked in, until Life itself has been snatched away with it. His human heart skips a beat, and his empty stomach churns. He squeezes his eyes shut to will it away. It would be natural to throw up, but he’s got nothing.

_He is supposed to see all, but to feel none._

\---

 

“John, are you all right?”

John tries to keep up with the pace to the Tube. It is a welcomed change to have Sherlock focused on him and not the case, as per usual. “No, I really am not. My mind – I can’t let it go off on its own, it’s too real. What do you see? Keep talking, please. Anything. I need it.”

“Um, okay. So, the victim. Why Jacqueline Ferguson? There is no indicator that the target is specifically _her_. In other words, why a middle-class, white, blond, teenage girl? The absence of sexual assault most likely rules out a predator preference, he did not pick her for _him_. For whom then? The people of this country are unfortunately prone to sympathise with the perceived stereotype of fragile, guileless youth, which means media coverage, as evident in the tabloids. Well statistically child victims get even more attention, but the teenager’s own investment in vampire fantasies would be an extra touch of the sensational. In short: our villain is seeking exposure.”

“ _He_?”

“As the default assumption for murders, but I really don't know at this point. _It_. _It_ would be a good pronoun.”

John is silent for a while. “Real vampires don't do that.”

“Yes, I am aware. On balance of probability, I’m more inclined to postulate the involvement of a vampire _fetish_. There are many ways to haul a human onto the rooftop, and proceed from there with mechanic devices resembling claws.”

“Right, a vampire-wannabe, brilliant, since we don’t even actually have claws or wings.”

“John.”

“What? That couldn’t explain away the blood drain, I know! What could _it_ have used for that? I know teeth when I see’em! What human would drink five fucking litres of blood?”

Sherlock pauses. “I…I wasn’t going to say that. There are always possibilities. Please, it’s just a case. Can we not make this more difficult than it already is?”

“Just a case it is.” John nods, and turns away. He has nothing to say, and he sees the blurred face of a young girl again.

\---

 

They reach 221B in silence, and see Mycroft in Sherlock’s chair.

“Kindly close the door, John. Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Mycroft stresses each coarse syllable, “is dead.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be glad?”

“Glad? Yes, fools may celebrate, but those who matter would know to fear.”

Sherlock almost chokes out a laugh. “Mycroft, are you telling me you’re afraid?”

“The number of enemies – powerful enemies - he has proves that he is not easily disposed of, and whoever has succeeded in that aspect has a right to be feared. The news is yet to reach his own agencies, much less the general public. The crime scene at Appledore has been preserved via absolute secrecy, and I bid you drop all your other cases, just this once. Rest well, gentlemen,” Mycroft glances down at his watch, “your ride will be here at 8 AM sharp. Meanwhile, I also have a flight to catch.”

It’s funny how Mycroft simply assume the _you_ to be plural. John’s mind is leaving him no room to register the Super Duper Important Government Case. _A face. The façade of fragile, guileless youth that has gone to sleep too soon, for too long._ John inhales. _Is the world of vampires as guileless as Henry makes it to be?_ After all, to give in to temptation is as simple as cheating on a diet – John flinches, and directs his eyes away from Sherlock, where he has, for the first time, inadvertently, vividly tasted blood. _God it was good._ _What else do I not know_? The questions about his _kin_ are burning a hole in his chest until it hurts. _Figuratively, that is._ He really doesn’t feel a thing when he decides to.

“John?”

John grimaces at the concern written all over Sherlock’s face. “Yeah, you go ahead to save England, I’ve got to talk to someone first thing tomorrow morning.” He brushes past Sherlock to head for his own bedroom upstairs.

A little solitude for a weary soul. _Not that he has one._

\---

 

“Dr. Aždaja is currently overseas for a seminar. He’ll be back tomorrow though! Do you have a message? Or I can tell him to ring back if you leave a number, Dr. Watson.” The girl at the lab, probably an undergrad intern, has an air of perky earnestness that will likely wear off in grad school. _The charm of youth, such fleeting vanity._

John smiles at her, mentally kicking the front desk. “Erm, don't bother, I’ll come around again. Ta.”

It’s just another gloomy day in London. John turns up his collar as he strides into the alley across Bart’s. He glares at two obvious muggers down the end - the one with a knife is really nervous. _Pick your target wisely_. The wise thing to do would be simply turning away, but today he does not mind snapping the bones of somebody in his way, even if unfairly.

As the eventual collision occurs, John distinctly feels a burning blade piercing his flesh. _But how does that work?_

\---

 

“Isn't it a strange hour to be sipping _sake_ on an isle on the other side of the Continent, when all hell is breaking loose at home?”

“For your record, I don't remember identifying any place as _home_.” Dr. Aždaja answers lazily. “In fact, I feel more at home here, in an _izakaya_ at the heart of Harajuku. Pray don’t spoil the evening with your jet-lag induced grump, Mister Holmes.”

“Travelling is supposed to be David’s job.” Mycroft states as a plain fact. “Apologies, Dr. Aždaja, please allow me to reword myself. In a city that you have made your laboratory a failed experiment is at large. The obsession with my brother is getting out of hand. He is a catastrophe.”

“Please refrain from abusing the big words, Mr. Holmes, he is just a data point.” Dr. Aždaja’s gaze flickers between Mycroft and the chef flipping teppanyaki in the background. “If you would indeed like to see a full-blown apocalypse I shall not disappoint you.”

Mycroft sets down the delicate porcelain cup more forcefully than necessary. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“The understanding was that I only agreed to talk to you because you seemed to be the sane one in your pathetic bunch, but do not think in one second that your judgement should have a say in the doings of _us_.” Dr. Aždaja smirks. “Can you even manage the revelation of our very existence to your _sheeple_? Blame it on GM crops, or better yet, climate change. Don't you have a panel of scientists to write those stories? Ah, look at that face, please do cheer up. Sumimasen,” he calls out in perfect Japanese, “one more plate of bluefin tuna with extra wasabi for the foreign devils, please.”

“No ploblem,” The waitress shots back merrily.

“That one’s on me, something you can’t get in London. It is quite exquisite, as well as fat-free, mostly, therefore compatible with your diet.” Dr. Aždaja swings on his coat. “You are the worst drinking pal ever, Mr. Holmes. But just so you know - your brother is not the _only_ object of his obsession. If your concern for Sherlock is reason enough for chasing me down here, you really ought to be a bit more careful about what you’re sending him into, in England. Sayonara!”

Mycroft growls at the tiny plate of meticulously cut crimson flesh placed in front of him. He drops his chopsticks as Dr. Aždaja’s last words sink in.

\---

 

The famed Appledore Vault turns out to be just a plain room, not even a big one. Sherlock squints his eyes at the large metal cage in the corner and wonders what it used to hold. He turns his attention to the only other object in the room. A chair, where the corpse of the newspaper tycoon is still seated. On a face that has provoked so much fear and hatred in its lifetime is a frozen expression of pain and despair.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive…”

Sherlock’s convex lens falls from his fingers. It is his own phone ringing. He reflectively reaches for a gun, but John is not here. He stares at the phone for a few good seconds before answering.

“Sherlock, drop whatever you’re working on, exit the premises. Now.” Mycroft says hotly.

“Too late, Mister Holmes, too late.” Footsteps from behind the doors. Another dead face emerges. A very familiar one, no doubt. With one click Sherlock cuts off the call, and straightens up with resolute, to face the man in the same old suit.

“The Woman taught me how to do that, makes a dramatic entrance. Do you miss her, Sherlock?” Moriarty leans in very, very close. “Do you miss me?”


	2. Chapter 2

John wakes up muddled. He does not know how much time has passed, but judging from his general lack of energy it could have been a whole day. Or two. _Without a shot._ He shudders as his veins constrict for the want of content, the equivalent of a growling human stomach. To sustain his warm-blood functions would be too draining, so he switches them off. There is no point of _staying human_ at this moment, anyway. His cold corpse presses against the colder metal behind his back – _wait a second_. John fingers the thick bars with disbelief. He is not supposed to feel _that_ , yet they are icy to his touch. He tries to brush them apart. Even in his diminished state this should not be a challenge, but they are unmoving, as if in mockery. For a second, the same helplessness of certain moments in Afghanistan comes back flooding, reinforced by the pain in his ribs. He clenches at his left side, where there is no blood, but definitely an opening underneath his slashed shirt. _Is this a dream?_ But even dreams are not supposed to happen, to him.

_What else do I not know?_

“Hello, Johnny boy.”

It is a voice he has heard only a few times, but remembers too well. John looks up. Were he not so deprived, even in this total darkness he would have seen more than a pair of glowing copper eyes in a distance. He stumbles.

“You… you are…”

“Yes, I am, and always have been. I was _here_ looong ago before you, John.”

Of course. _How else is one supposed to come back after shooting oneself in the mouth?_

“Aww look at you, locked up nicely in a cage like a bad doggy. Isn’t it funny how there’s a hierarchy in every world? Human materials are just as dainty as human lives to us now, but steel of _our own_ shall still hold you, and _hurt_ you.”

_Isn't this great. There is definitely going to be some catching up with Henry._ “Right, point made. What do you want me for?”

“An audience. Deductions are more fun if you’ve got somebody listening, Sherlock would know.”

A spotlight snaps on, and John is thrown back by the sight of Sherlock in a chair, his coat and scarf on the floor. Sherlock is sitting upright, unhurt and unbounded – he even has his suit jacket unbuttoned, except for Moriarty’s hand casually pressing on his left shoulder. John revolts at how ghoulishly white that hand is, dangerously close to the rhythmic beat that is Life in Sherlock’s neck, where John knows the warmness of every pore, every mole. And Sherlock turns to him – John knows all he can see is just another pair of glowing copper eyes, silently mouthing an apology.

_Stop it. Stop hurting me with your sad eyes. I have failed you yet again, in my stupidity._

“Call me dramatic, but I’ve staged this just for you, John. Enjoying the view?”

“Let him go,” John breathes, “what in the world can a mortal do for you? Whatever you want, we can talk.”

“Oooh John, you haven’t changed in that part, _trying_ to be so protective.” Moriarty chuckles. “But you’ve also changed quite a lot, I don't remember you to be so full of yourself before. What in the world can _you_ do for me? It’s always Sherlock. Always.” Sherlock holds his place in cold indifference as Moriarty leans in to stroke a single finger down his face and continues, “Here is my favourite human, my beloved of this world, my only. And you, John, are his pressure point. Wonder where I got that idea? The funny wording is courtesy of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Oh, you should have seen him begging in this very chair, Sherlock, it could have moved your brother. I didn't get rid of him before taking it all in from his tiny little brain, you know. I am the master of the Appledore Vault now, and by extension the Western World.”

“That’s hardly an worthy ambition for the immortal,” Sherlock casts a comment calmly.

“Oh don't you judge me Sherlock,” Moriarty smirks, “it’s never about being _worthy_ , it’s all about having _fun_. Plus, you don’t even know what immortality is like. Oh perhaps you do. It gets _boring_. You and your fool of a brother have destroyed the human part of my entertainment network, leaving me no recourse but to exploit the _supernatural_. Jackie was a pretty little girl, Sherlock, I was hoping you’d give her a bit more of your attention.”

_Entertainment network_. John’s head is ringing. Moriarty has always been insane, he knows that. _Is this what immortality will ultimately do to a mind_?

“You wanted the world to know.” Sherlock states plainly, undisturbed by Moriarty practically hissing in his face.

“Why not? The world will know, and fear, and crumble at our feet.” To John’s horror, Moriarty suddenly gets down on one knee. “Will you rule it with me, Sherlock? Will you be mine _forevar_?” He licks his teeth at the last syllable before springing up to his feet again. “Oh, forget that I ever asked. I have John now, so by extension I have you _already_ , do I not?”

\---

 

In the cone of abundant brightness, John could make out that what Moriarty has just whipped out is a surgeon’s kit. _Cannot afford to swoon now_. John grips onto the _vampire_ steel bars between him and Sherlock, pressing his face forwards in between, prompting the frostiness to bite him hard. _Yes. Harder. Keep me awake._

“Adorable, human inventions are.” Moriarty picks out a small scalpel and twirls it in his fingers. “There are many ways to do this, but I’m carrying out this scene just for you, Dr. Watson. Sit back and watch, since there’s nothing else you can do, is there?”

_Oh God, oh God._

John is yelling, but nothing comes out of his tightened throat. The pain on his side intensifies, and he could no longer stand straight. “Off.” Moriarty whispers, as he pulls off Sherlock’s jacket and drops it to the floor with a touch of showcase glamour. “Now stay very still, love.”

The scalpel tackles each shirt button with precision, first on the front, then on the sleeves. John’s lips quiver as the tiny blade in Moriarty’s hand digs and flips around Sherlock’s wrists, his hands numbed by the rails. Finally, the shirt also comes off, leaving Sherlock in only a tee shirt. “All the boys love a good striptease,” Moriarty breathes into Sherlock’s ear, “we don’t want the collar blocking the view. You all right, John?”

John’s eyes have turned from copper to red, and they are flickering on and off, like a toy car out of battery. “Whatever it is you are doing, stop it, right now.” He means to spit it out threateningly, but in his weakened voice it sounds like a plea, a hopeless cry for mercy. _Fuck._

Moriarty breaks into hysterics. “Oh John, you and your little brain, you haven't even figured out what it is I am doing, have you? Ah I forgot – you can’t _read_ me. Well Sherlock can’t read me either, but I bet he knows. Go ahead and read it from Sherlock then. On second thought, don't brother, here I present you the climax of the show -”

In a flash, the scalpel has moved up to Sherlock’s exposed neck, and it _cuts_. All the hair on John’s head stands up. Sherlock stays as stoic as ever without a sound, his flinching minimismal. Drops of scarlet seep out as Moriarty nudges the blade contemplatively, his hand perfectly steady. Sherlock grimaces slightly, his lips tightening.

John is shaking the rails fiercely, in vain. He could not make a sound. The propagating scent of blood is attacking his senses. His soaring appetite is twisting his veins, while his killer instinct grips his guts. _Sherlock is bleeding, yet he lusts after it._ The guilt, the wrath, and the sheer want have reduced him into a puddle of ineptness. He falls, wanting to shut his eyes, at the same time unable to take them off the trickling crimson slowly staining the collar of Sherlock’s tee shirt.

_Oh Lord, why do I live?_

Moriarty is apparently pleased by the turnout. He sticks his tongue to the hollow between Sherlock’s collarbones where the drops have accumulated, and _licks_ extravagantly. Sherlock jumps back as if it cuts deeper than the blade. His eyes flicker to John, but only for a fleeting second. John looks up to him in desperation, his fingers just clenching at the floor now.

_Damn you, John Watson, you useless shit. What now?_

“Oh yum yum, I wonder where I can get more of that. Oh look, the whole of five litres, right here.” Moriarty resumes a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other holding the scalpel in place. “John, are you jealous? Because I am, and I always want more. Sherlock had a thing for me,” he tightens his grip a little, “but he keeps going back to you, it’s so frustrating. Now, there’s a cure for that. Do not think I am abusing your instrument, Dr. Watson, because I am performing a surgery. A surgery for _mortality_.“

John’s eyes are glaring again. He could feel his rising rage eking whatever energy there is from his body at the implication of those words.

“One more inch, we reach the carotid artery, and there will be no turning back. The only way to save Sherlock Holmes would be by _changing_ him, and I will make him mine to keep, _forever_.”

“No, you will not.”

Moriarty just completely disregards his assertion. “To be fair, John, you are also capable of doing it. You don’t know it but you’ve got it. Venom, the good old way. Show him some _teeth_ , and he’ll _change_ for you. But you’re too nice to do that, aren’t you, Dr. Watson? Well, too late. Sherlock is mine now. And he will stick by me forever, because I’ve got _yooou_.”

“Jawn.”

John lifts his head at the first word spoken to him from Sherlock since the beginning of this unfortunate encounter. It is not really spoken, barely more than a shallow breath that is inadvertently released from Sherlock’s lips. He sees the appeal in Sherlock’s velvety eyes more than hears it. _Sherlock has called for him. He is summoned._ Like the first tremor at the heart of a fault line, the invocation sets all his bones shattering. Lava erupts from his body, and his back rips open. He falls into a foetal crouch in excruciating pain, only to see his hands turning into claws. He howls as his tailbone crackles and _grows_. Overwhelmed by terror and fatigue, he stays put until something on his back is pushing him off the ground.

_Wings_.

With one fierce swing of his tail, the cage is cracked open. Moriarty shrieks.

“Oh you did not just transform, _vegan_! How did _you_ initiate, Good Doctor Watson? I have thought too, too highly of your moral compass, what a shame. Did you suck from an unfortunate patient? Or did you take liberty at the blood bank? Yuk!”

John has more questions of his own, but now is not the time. He hovers closer to Moriarty, his newly-acquired wings flapping majestically. “One more millimetre, I will shred you, and I will burn you.” The recoil from the unexpected blue flames that shoot out of his mouth sends him flying backwards. Moriarty screeches as he cowers under the heat, dropping the scalpel; while Sherlock, unaffected, watches on with intense awe and intrigue. Somehow slightly embarrassed under Sherlock’s gaze, John drifts back to continue. “I was a soldier, and we’ll fight claws to claws if you choose to. Come on, show me you claws,” the markings on the window frame of Jacqueline Ferguson make a flashback, “I know they are smaller than mine.”

“No you will not, I am Elder.”

“Oh yes I will, I am angry.”

Moriarty releases a loud and lasting shrill, and John expects to see wings and tail breaking from underneath the suit of his opponent; but it does not happen.

“Very well. You won! Captain John Watson has won! Let this day be remembered as the day the two greatest minds in this world combined gave in to the threat of rage and brute force!”

\---

 

Despite his proclamation of intellectual superiority, Moriarty has practically scurried away. As soon as the footsteps have disappeared, John drops himself from mid-air. He might have sprained an ankle for this, but _Sherlock catches him_ , the momentum crashing them both onto the floor. The glow in John’s eyes is going out, and his wings are shrunk and limp against Sherlock’s long arms. Everything is just fading away now.

“How…did you…”

“I was counting on you not holding up much longer,” Sherlock might be kissing him. _Adrenaline_. But John really can’t know, because he is not feeling anything in his current state, except for the glorious scent of blood that is so dangerously close –

With a loud groan, John exerts his last strength to break off from Sherlock and roll away.

“John! John!” Sherlock comes over him again, grimacing as he tries to hold John’s oversized scruffy claws in his hands.

“Get away from me,” John hisses through his teeth, his face distorted by want and fear. “Sherlock, I swear, if you come any closer, I will kill you. Now go get yourself an ambulance.”

The agitation on Sherlock’s face soothes into a contemplative frown, and his voice drops deep. “John. Listen to me. Focus. Think. I did just dial for an ambulance, so we have eight minutes for this.”

John listens, because he is very fond of Sherlock’s deduction voice.

“You are in dire need of sustenance, yet you cannot go anywhere in your current form.”

_True._

“To be seen by the incoming paramedics as you are will not be in our best interest, especially not so when there’s a vampire victim in the room.”

_Oh, that body. Also true._

“The average adult gulp is 30ml.”

_?_

“The average blood donation is 450ml.”

_Where is he going with this?_

“Take fifteen, it’s safe.”

_Safe my arse. When is it ever a good time to reason with a beast?_

John whimpers. He might as well be crying. “Sherlock, please stop. You’re always so logical but I can’t. I really can’t.”

_Once it starts, I could easily take all 5 litres – oh, God forbid, no._

Sherlock is unrelenting. John couldn't help breathing in greedily, when he leans over John to whisper, “John, this is an emergency, and I am making a donation, nothing more than that. Take it, please, for both our sakes. Don't make me cut myself some more,” Sherlock’s voice is husky, “and drip it into your mouth.”

John gives in. _Oh, this is a crime, and Sherlock is a criminal._

_Behold, a winged ugly creature sinking its teeth into a human throat._

\---

 

_15, 14, 13, 12._

Like the first rain of Summer hitting long-scorched soil, the first drops simply melted away. John indulges in a few successive gulps, smitten by euphoria and nausea at the same time. _Hell it must have been more than 30ml_. The warmth of the precious elixir of Life gradually spreads itself in John’s veins, and he begins to regain his senses. Sherlock’s screams are stifled, but even through the thick hide on his back, John could feel Sherlock’s fingers drilling into his flesh. He shivers, silently praying for forgiveness.

_11, 10, 9._

The thick hide over John’s skin is receding, as his wings and tail fold back in. Tears are forming in Sherlock’s eyes as he cradles John lightly.

_8, 7._

John’s breath cools down, and his claws are shrinking back into hands. Sherlock is sobbing into John’s neck, and John is suddenly aware of how ghastly cold his own lips are.

_6._

John is still dizzy, but he manages to warm himself up. Colours return to his face.

_5._

Sherlock’s sobs have somehow quieted down, as John tongues over the wound gently.

_4._

John is still sucking lightly at the wound. It’s more like a kiss now.

_3._

_That’s probably enough._

_2._

_All right, stop now._

_1._

_This is it._

John snatches himself away from Sherlock. He fixes his gaze on Sherlock’s face, blue eyes filled with unspoken emotions. Sherlock smiles at him, tears still in his eyes, lips slightly pale. “Lie down and stay still,” John murmurs as he keeps pressure on the wound, “you are one hell of a donor.” He says that doctor-ly.

The sirens of an ambulance could be heard from outside.

“I’m fine. Go now, but before that, put something on.” Sherlock whispers.

“I don't care if England sees me naked, I’m not going anywhere.” John looks around at the torn pieces that used to be his shirt and denim, and spots a coat and scarf. “Oh, here comes something really handy.”

 

\---

When Sherlock opens his eyes, John is not there. He stares at the drops of stranger’s blood entering his veins against the white walls of the ward, and closes his eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is downright fucking difficult... Any thoughts? Please drop a line or two. *tries to wink seductively*


	3. Chapter 3

“Well, that’s certainly one of the most interesting incident we’ve heard to date, thank you for reporting.” Henry pushes his laptop away after clicking close the spreadsheet.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?” John’s copper eyes glare at him. He is dressed in a slightly stained lab coat now, the right sleeve rolled all the way up to his forearm. In the mirror, a syringe in mid-air is emptying itself into nothing. Not only is there no point of switching on the extra functions at this moment, but more importantly, John does not wish to see himself. Rather, he does not wish to be seen by _anyone_. He huffs in deep satisfaction as the extra-intense plasma kicks in.

“While I understand the extraordinary endeavour must have taken up a colossal amount of energy, I would advise you to go a little more gradual with the shot as to optimise adaptation.” Henry cautions. “It is an ancient rumour that an _initiated_ vampire might undergo transformation in critical circumstances, but such postulations are hard to prove given the absence of data, as natural for rare events. Now that you’ve just provided _two_ examples, we might have something to work on. I take it that you have been thoroughly provoked.” He returns his scrutinising gaze on John. “Speaking of _initiation_ – where did _you_ take a drink, Dr. Watson? Although I suppose that’s a bit of a personal question, curiosity just got the better of me. It really is an element of surprise, coming from _you_ , John.”

If John were warm, he would be blushing now. “Yes, that’s _very_ personal, let’s stop at that. Just be assured I didn't killed anyone though.” He inhales sharply. “But what about Moriarty?”

“To be honest, John, I couldn’t give a flying damn if you _did_.” Henry talks as if the name of Moriarty did not strike anything. “But for your record - it is also rumoured that a vampire might share a special bond with the human whose blood has been his/her first taste, that is, if the human were not killed on the spot, which is what usually happens, especially in the frenzy of the first taste. Again, a speculation about extreme events that’s hard to prove due to lack of data.”

John’s head is spinning again. _Special bond_ – they already have that, vampire or not. _Killed on the spot_ –nonono, oh God, what _could have_ happened. He commands himself to focus, shutting away the overly active imaginations. This world is getting so much more dangerous than he expected, he doesn’t know if he likes it anymore. “Moriarty,” he spits through gritted teeth, “do you not give a flying damn about what he does, either?”

“What about him?”

“He is insane, he has killed, and he is going for more. And now that he has control over whatever Charles Augustus Magnussen has been holding -”

Henry chuckles. “Oh, John, your mindset is still so adorably human – no blaming though, this is how you have chosen to live – _like a human_ \- at least so far, and it’s all fine. Preying on humans, changing humans against their will, terrifying entire nations -” Henry’s face becomes somehow more solemn now, “much akin to the destruction of an entire ant colony by a human child for sheer amusement, such thoughtless acts are largely frowned upon in our community, but constitute no real offence.”

John blinks. “I don't understand.”

“Well it might take about fifty year, but you’ll get there. _Think_. We were humans, we know humans, and we get to watch them for hundred of years. What supernatural malice a small fraction of _us_ might let loose is far outdone by what they inflict upon themselves on a daily basis. Surely you know more about London crime rates than the average _citizen_? Also, did you not even once think about that when you got _shot_ in, where was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John swallows. He has nothing to say.

“Nevertheless, here’s the paradox: just when you think they could not get anymore self-destructive, like rats and cockroaches they never fail to recuperate after a real catastrophe, as had been done _twice_ in the last century. And it’s never the end of the world. For us, it more than justifies enjoying what you could of _them_ , in whatever way you can. Sure, we have all the synthesis in the world to keep a low profile and a clear conscience if you care for one, but there is no need to be too hard on yourself if you fancy something _tasty_ once in a while. See my point?”

“No, it really doesn’t.” John says quietly. He is conjuring up no argument against what seems so _logical_ , but he simply refuses to believe it.

“Ah, I’d call that a matter of opinions. It’s all fine.” Henry stretches excessively as if weary from the _educational_ session. “But Moriarty will be locked away until ages have passed in this world, since you’re concerned.”

John blinks again. “Umm, good. But based on what you just said -”

“Like I just said, what he has done, or is going to do to some humans is nothing to us.” Henry is displaying his patience. “But he staged _your_ assault with _our_ blade, and confined you for a prolonged period in _our_ cell, now that’s what we call a felony. Our jurisdiction will get him, and put him into a sturdy cage,” Henry casts an reassuring look at John, “transformation-proof.”

John is speechless. “I’m so glad you have your priorities straight,” he mutters.

“Exactly. One of the things in which we excel humans is caring for our own kind.” Henry has a wry glint of a smile in his eyes. “Congratulations, John Watson, you have probably just saved the human’s Western world, inadvertently, by getting stabbed in the ribs. Don't worry, it will heal, with a few more dose of the extra-intense. Any more questions?”

_Oh yes, loads_ , but John’s mind is too busy processing the unexpected turn of events. _At least Sherlock is safe now._ Good. “No…Umm, except that, I need somewhere to go. Anywhere.”

Henry does not look very surprised. “Human courses of action are generally directed by inertia, but I suppose our immortality do _bore_ us more easily. Do you have a plan or a preference?”

“Not really.” John gathers the big coat he had taken off earlier in his hands, and sniffs at it forlornly. He buries his face in it, drowning invisible tears. He does not care if he looks ridiculous. “The original plan was to hunt down Moriarty, on my own. But now that’s settled, I have nothing. Anywhere. Anywhere but _back_. I cannot go back. I am a monster,” he grieves into the coat, “I could have killed my… him… oh God…”

“But you didn't, and that was a choice.” Henry says, the gentleness in his voice somehow uncharacteristic. “To tag along your human, that was a choice. Or to spread your wings and conquer the world, that could also be a choice, and it's not even against our customs.”

“I have no intention to conquer this stupid world, I’m not sure if I want a part in it anymore.” John is shaking slightly. “I am not Moriarty, if I get bored, I’ll just _drop_.”

“I trusted that you wouldn't.”

“No you didn't _trust_ me, what would a _guinea pig_ need trust for?” John clenches at the coat, “You approached me when I was vulnerable.”

“Yes, I did, and now you resent it.” Henry answers lazily. “But did it not help you cope back then? No-one could have foreseen the events of this day - don’t go overboard with the guilt projection, I know so much more about human psychology than you do, it's awkward. I’m changing the subject for you.” He makes a turnabout in this chair. “Are you aware that the name Aždaja is Serbian for _dragon_? There might be some forgotten mysteries in the prototype of your protease that could serve to explain the peculiar features of your transformed self.”

John did not know. He does not care at this moment. “Give me a place. Anything. Please.”

Henry sighs a little. “John, sit up. I do not tell this story often, and I would like to have your attention.”

John still does not care. But he listens, even if just politely.

“Aždaja is not my name. I took it from my mentor.”

“Before I got _here_ I was Henry the Lame for twenty some years. Birth defect, a _curse_ , some had called it back then. As the second son with a limping leg, I was naturally sent away from home since a young age to pursue the only other honourable profession for an aristocrat who was unfit to rule: the clergy. ”

“Monastery teachings were less than _fun_ , you would say, and the most intriguing and satisfying subject of study had always been the natural sciences. But science was not the only thing that fascinated me.”

“She was my cousin – you know how it was fairly common in our time, right? We did not even meet that often, but young was her age, and fierce was her passion, for a man who was bound to marry the Holy Church.”

John smiles a little to himself, suddenly reminded of his own limping days, and the strange attraction of a man who claimed to have been married to his _work_.

“ _I wish you could run, Henry_ , she said once upon a time, _and carry me away_.”

“So I plundered volumes on medicine by day, and prayed to Mary by night, hoping for a cure from either reason or faith.”

“But before I found an answer, news from Hometown reached me only too late.”

“My whole House had fallen under the onslaught of an age-old rival. I was only spared because I was virtually forgotten.”

John shudders. It is slightly unsettling to hear History itself telling the stories. He did not previously think there was much, if any, truth to Shakespeare’s gory tales. _Henry’s rationale makes more sense now._

“My first thought was to _keep her safe_ , for though her dwelling was in another town, her house did bear the same family name that I have chosen to forget. Vengeance came second. For these ends I appealed to Doctor Aždaja, who had given many wise consults to masters of the monastery, in matters of both science and theology.”

“He heard my case with calm. _Vengeance is not the end, young man,_ he said, _but if you have decided that protection be your only offering to your beloved, I can grant you the power in exchange for this life, and two years in my service._ ”

“ _What more do I have to offer_ , thought I. Though two years sounded dreadfully long back then, I concurred, and became Dead.”

“So I spread my wings and hunted down our enemies. At first, vengeance was sweet, sweet as their blood diffusing on my tongue, freshly pumped from their rotten hearts. The first murderer, I remember vividly, it was an exquisite look on his face when I told him I was an angle from Hell.” A dark shadow came over Henry’s face that John has never witnessed before; John holds his place.

“But after a while, the thrill faded away, as Time itself claims all. I wondered if my zealous actions at such a sacrifice had changed anything _at all_ in the bigger scheme.”

“I suppose it did.” John says softly. “What about…?”

“After my funeral she married swiftly, and I watched her wither, from a distance. I did succeed in protecting her and her children, in a few circumstances, until the end of her long and _unhappy_ life.” Henry chuckles lightly, the neutral grey resuming. “Ah, it’s quite unreasonable, after centuries in this world the early _human_ memories still manage to stay.”

_I wonder why_ , thinks John.

“After that, nothing really mattered, and two years became two _hundred_ years, since there was literally nothing better to do. I studied extensively under my mentor, and traveled quite a bit around the Continent.” Henry is reclining in his chair. “I remember attending chapel while Johann Sebastian Bach performed, and thought very little of him. I also struck up a nice little chat with John Locke in the Hague once, when political matters still interested me.”

John glares at him, not sure if this is his idea of a joke.

“Anyway, why was I telling you this again? Oh, right, a place to go. I was just giving you a bit of the background of my person, and then of the Lab, if you’d like? The work is literally endless, and there’ll always be a vacancy on the research team.”

John stands up, leaving the coat on the chair. “Thank you, Henry. Now could you find me a proper outfit first, please?”

\---

 

“What a touching back story, Dr. Aždaja, I am in tears.” Mycroft emerges right after John’s departure. “Although, it was a little overly romantised – _florid_ , may I say.”

Dr. Aždaja makes his smirk more than apparent. “Oh please, Mister Holmes, surely you are aware that I did not tailor it to _your_ liking. It wasn’t even very creative – I simply glimpsed down the other path of his mortal life and elaborated. Although, in all truthfulness, I did know John Locke on a personal level.”

Mycroft chortles. “Pray elaborate on that, and entertain me with a new story sometime.”

“My pleasure.” Dr. Aždaja hangs the battered lab coat back into the closet. “It is so _unfair_ ,” he tuts, “to have one of _us_ so invested in one of _yours_. Oh, you know he’s going to break his heart, _at some point_.”

“Fairness has never been a natural element of this world.” Mycroft’s lips constrict slightly. “as for heartbreaks - that’s also a choice, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is not crack even though it smells suspiciously like it.  
> 2\. Hit me with whatever you think, please.


	4. Chapter 4

Down Baker Street, barely detectable from still a few houses away, melded with the usual evening buzz is a tender song on strings. John could virtually see Sherlock’s tilted chin against the ebony part of the instrument, his neck stretched long and graceful on the other side. John wants to kiss it so badly. Sherlock’s eyes, lost in a reverie deeper than deductions, would be gazing out of the window, as the melody from the languid movements of his bow is kneaded even softer. Sherlock’s elbow would be frozen mid-stroke now, for the abrupt stop must have resulted from him spotting John approaching the flat. _Upstairs, upstairs._ John’s heart is racing faster than could be explained by the climbing. Sherlock is not rushing to the door, otherwise it would have swung open by now. He’s taking his time putting that violin away. He is _waiting_.

John knocks. He has lost his keys in the recent episode of madness that seems like ages ago.

_Oh, he is rushing to the door._ And it swings open.

John smiles at him weakly, handing Sherlock the neatly folded bundle. “Here, your coat. I brought it back.” _Damn. Why can’t I say something nice and cheesy like_ I missed you, even though it’s only been one day? _And that would not be cheesy, not at all._

“You said you weren’t going anywhere.” Sherlock does not take the coat, because he has thrown both arms around John in an awkward bear-hug. John nudges them both until he is actually inside the flat, kicking the door shut behind them. He steals a quick kiss on Sherlock’s neck before they break off. The collar of Sherlock’s pyjama tee shirt is too low. The pink impression from the violin looks like a very slight hickey on his left collarbone, and John licks his lips.

“Listen, Sherlock, I’m not good at putting stuff into words - ”

“No, I know, I’ve read your blog.”

John laughs, his nerves relaxing considerably. A constancy in their flipped-around life never fails to cheer him up. “Okay, not only that, though. I – I am trying. Look, I really don’t want to go anywhere, but I am very, very conflicted at the moment. About _us_.”

Sherlock bites his lower lip. “Go on.”

“Sherlock, you have saved me, in many senses. But for all I know, I could have…” John takes in a sharp breath, “killed you.”

“No you really couldn’t, I knew it.” _No you didn’t,_ John snaps in his mind. “I understand what we did might come across as a bit…unconventional. But John – have we ever been the conventional sort of folks, even before we met?” John smiles wryly at the rightful classification. “And technically, it wasn’t a bit more dangerous than the loaded gun I pointed to your head a while back.”

It takes a whole second of recalling before the tucked-away footage automatically plays itself, and John hears the sirens outside of 221B again. Chinning the Chief Superintendent was the best thing he ever did, against his better judgment. _Still._ “You know,” John says quietly, “I am never not mad about those two years.”

“I know, and I am never not sorry. I am willing to make compensations with my blood,” Sherlock’s voice is very small, “and - my life, all of it, if you will have it, John.”

John stares.

If they are going to make oaths, of course it will be right here, in front of the fireplace, at 221B.

“I will gladly honour it with my own.”

Their kiss is almost solemn, just gentle and unrushed caresses of lips against lips. John is still holding Sherlock’s hands in between them, when Sherlock’s misty eyes turn to his.

“Take me to bed,” Sherlock lowers his voice, “my _fire dragon_.”

\---

 

“Oh _Jesus_ , Sherlock -”

John’s two hands grab onto Sherlock’s hip as Sherlock straddles him, slowly grinding down. Sherlock flexes under the sensation of his own anus dilating around John’s erection, his breath now a series of short huffy _oh_ ’s. The bruise of dark purple around the new scab stands out amongst the various shades of pink on Sherlock’s neck and around his swollen nipples. John pulls him down by a hand on his nape, to savour his flushed lips and tongue. Sherlock’s exhales are ever more hoarse and rapid now, so John lets go of his mouth. The intense friction of taut flesh against his cock is getting him giddy enough.

“John, bite me.”

John sobers up instantly, almost holding off the thrusting of his hip. “Excuse me?”

“Bite me until I _bleed_ , you heard me.” With his hair all ruffled and eyes wide with lust, Sherlock is not supposed to sound threatening. But he is.

In shock, John falls back fractionally as if the words _burn_ his face. “William Sherlock Scot Holmes,” he spits, “you complete and utter -”

“Madman, I know,” The iridescence in Sherlock’s green eyes is glaring as he mercilessly rocks his hip. John moans helplessly. “I used to stick a needle into myself everyday, John, and I have just withstood months in a terrorist’s dungeon. Do you really think a little sting will put me off? I _want_ it from you,” he slows down into a tantalising sway, “I will have you come _violently_ inside of me, and know that _I_ did it to you, no one else,” he rasps as if in desperation, “no one else.”

It takes all of John’s willpower to not fall apart under these very words in that voice. He nods very slowly, a glint of copper flashing in his eyes. “Bet on it.”

John takes over Sherlock’s mouth again, playfully biting at his lips. Sherlock murmurs vague content. John moves up to the right, his fingers raking Sherlock’s curls out of the way, to nibble at his earlobe. Sherlock holds his breath for a second. _Anywhere._ John’s mouth wanders down again, pausing only momentarily in soft biting and sucking along the neck and shoulder, down Sherlock’s left arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. _Oh, this is suspense._ John smiles treacherously at Sherlock’s growl, before taking up his left hand to thoroughly suck on each finger. Somehow Sherlock has forgotten that this is supposed to feel good. He relishes the noises from John’s pouted lips around his little finger, as much as the prodding of John’s cock at his – yes, _yes_. Now John is holding up his left hand again. More specifically, the ring finger.

_Oh._

“There, I’m doing it.” John murmurs, placing a chaste kiss at the root of the finger. Then he slides the tip of the finger into his mouth, again.

It feels more of a quick piercing than a bite. _A little sting_ , exactly. Like a _finger stick_. _Oh, John, still all Dr. Watson._ John sucks with glee as he perceives the slight constriction of Sherlock’s body around his cock. Drops of luscious nectar blossom on his tongue, the exploding flavours that he has known _thrice_ spreading right to his groin. _Pity, that finger’s probably not gonna be on strings for a while._ John presses his free hand above Sherlock’s buttocks, pinning him in place for the ever deepening penetration. Sherlock’s soft grunts turn into harsh gasps for air as their bodies jolt in counter-rhythm. John pulls Sherlock’s finger out of his mouth after one definitive swipe of his tongue, and leans in to graze over the hollow between Sherlock’s collarbones, tasting the fine vibrations from Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock’s whole torso is now pressed to John’s, the rise and fall of chests resonating each other through a slick film of sweat. Sherlock’s groans are broken syllables, his grimace deepened by the tingle in his fingertip as he clenches at John’s back. John’s hands are firmly on his waist, reinforcing every frenzied thrust. Sherlock’s eyes are rolled back as he arcs backwards. It’s building up.

“John, John, I’m -” Sherlock’s choked voice falters.

“Come on me,” John fucks him faster, “let me see it, NOW.”

With a deep rumble from his chest, Sherlock’s body pulls rigid, his semen spraying generously onto John’s abdomen. He whimpers as the grating of his overly-sensitive tissues goes on, more of his come spurting in small waves. John finishes with a shout and feverish shivers, his ejaculation inciting another moan from Sherlock.

For a moment neither of them move. They have fallen upon each other, sharing regained breaths. John presses a long kiss to Sherlock’s philtrum, before Sherlock catches his mouth. Still shaky, Sherlock attempts to lift himself off John, the separation driving a groan out of them both. Sherlock quickly lies down on his stomach, looking slightly uneasy, as some of John’s come leaks out from his arsehole. John laughs quietly in amusement, putting his fingers there as if to stuff it back in.

“Oh God, please, no more.” Sherlock cries into the bedspread.

John pats his buttocks lightly in reassurance, before lying down next to him.

\---

 

“You are absolutely the craziest person I’ll ever meet,” John’s fingers are drawing meaningless patterns on Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s eyes smile. _That’s a_ yes. Still, he says, “You can’t know that. Was it good though?”

“Fucking hell, you tell me.” John grips his shoulder lightly.

“Hmm.” A non-answer that sounds like _yes_.

John gazes at his lazy eyelashes. The red hotness in Sherlock’s face is just receding. John wants to kiss him again, but he’s too exhausted. “Sometimes I would like to take you slow-dancing,” he says abruptly, “but I don’t know how.” _Well that came out of no where. But it’s true._

Sherlock looks up in half-surprise at the notion. “I do.”

“ _You_ do?” John laughs in disbelief, his eyes glimpsing at Sherlock’s naked long legs. _Does it really come as a surprise?_ John pictures those legs in a beautiful pirouette, and becomes oddly excited. “What else have you been holding back on me?”

“You’ll have all the time in the world to find out.” Sherlock winks at him.

John concurs, his fingers wandering to Sherlock’s face. _Something needs to be said_.

“Sherlock, I -”

At that second, the doorbell rings.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, at this hour?”John’s frustration lashes out. “Who the hell would that be?”

“It’s not particularly late, John, our coitus did not last _hours_.” Sherlock is grinning as he jumps out of bed, the motion prompting a loud _ouch_ as he lands on his feet. “It’s the centrifuge, I have requested their fastest special delivery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When it comes to Sherlock's full name I actually prefer Sherlock Kingsley Shackleton Holmes (Two Two One Bravo Baker, anyone?). But let's stick to the BBC fanon. *shrugs*
> 
> Edit: Rich Text is back! I love my italics :D

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I have enjoyed CAM, I tend to think that Moriarty would own his arse. I missed you, Jim!
> 
> Sidenote: I am slightly drunk ATM so everything looks a little mushy... the pointing out of any mistakes will be very much appreciated. Comments and discussions are especially welcomed.


End file.
